


the sharpest lives are the deadliest to lead

by Anonymous



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Loneliness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), References to Depression, Trauma, because i think that turning a child into a weapon to kill people counts as child abuse, i read too much into a throwaway joke line from several months ago and now there's a fic, mr notfound if you see this your character has so much potential
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28755654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Few people actually consider what being a hunter means, at least for George, and George can live with that. They see his hunts with Dream and they see how many times that Dream has outsmarted them, that they don't consider how good Dream is, the kind of skill it must take to match him nearly step for step, to kill him even once. Their manhunts are a kind of training, teaching them how to think on their feet, how to work together, to be able to accomplish tasks with both speed and skill as they work closer to a goal. It’s learning how to kill with efficiency, to make sacrifices, where best to slip your sword to do the most damage.
Relationships: Antfrost & Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Darryl Noveschosch & Sapnap, GeorgeNotFound & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Georgenotfound & Clay | Dream, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27
Collections: Anonymous





	the sharpest lives are the deadliest to lead

**Author's Note:**

> i was rewatching quackity’s election vod when i heard george say he was a trained assassin. I then blacked out and when i woke up this was sitting in my drafts several months later. enjoy.

The thing about the election was that George did not particularly care about whether or not Swag 2020 won. He wasn't looking for power or influence, didn't have anything he particularly wanted to change in the world. He was happy for Quackity’s sake, glad that the man got the position of power he craved, a position where, with the right leverage, he could enact the kind of change he wanted to see in Manburg. The guy had some good ideas, George would be the first to admit, and he did seem to have Manburg’s best interests in mind in running. He really did want to do right by the country, for all his yessirs and his talk of having a fat ass. Whenever he talked about all the changes he wanted to make, all the good he could do as president, his white-yellow call duck wings would flutter with excitement, the passion clear in his words and on his face as he punctuated his words with wild gesticulation. So when he asked George to run with him, talking about George’s clout, George said yes.

His lack of desire for political power was why he didn’t care when Quackity told him he decided to pool their votes with Schlatt. So whatever, Schlatt would be president, Quackity would still be in a position to enact change, and George… well, with the talk Schlatt had had with him before the vote count was revealed, he figured he’d be kept busy.

“I’m a trained assassin,” he said as they all stood later in the shadow of one of Eret’s towers, his voice light as Punz fell with an arrow in his throat, already dissolving into smoke, and the look that Schlatt gave him would be enough to strike a lesser man down where they stand. George just raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the uncomprehending faces of those around them with a smirk. 

Schlatt huffed, but said nothing to him, instead changing the subject with the skill of someone used to being underestimated. No matter how many times Schlatt showed someone up, he could always bring it back around so that the next time he decided to knife them in the back they still didn't expect it, and George could respect that. Still, Schlatt’s knife wasn't literal, and sooner or later he’d push too hard and one of his targets would hit back with a fury and vengeance that Schlatt had never seen before. George didn't know when, or how, but whatever happened it would leave Schlatt defeated, and that was why he kept George around. He was in a position to show Schlatt’s enemies the metaphorical door and get them out of the way for good.

* * *

“George!” Exclaimed Tubbo, looking up from the paper in front of him, placing his quill off to the side. “Hey! I feel like I haven't seen you in forever, what are you doing here?”

“Schlatt wanted to meet with me, so…” He gestured vaguely. “Here I am.”

“Ooh, what’s the meeting about?”

“Not  _ entirely _ sure yet, but I guess I’ll find out in time. How have you been lately, Tubbo?” George said in a vague attempt to change the topic from him.

“I’m doing well! Planning for the festival is a bit nerve-wracking, but I’m excited.” Topic successfully changed!

“Have a little faith in yourself, I’m sure it'll go great.” He gestured at the paperwork. “Schlatt keeping you busy?”

“It’s mostly to do with the festival. What about you?”

“He had me running some errands.” George shrugged, putting on a casual air and pretending he couldn't still see the deep red flakes under his nails if he looked close enough at them.

Tubbo leaned forward on his desk, arms folded in front of him. “What do you even do all day? Surely you don't  _ just _ run errands.”

George smiled tightly. Tubbo, for all his genuine questions, didn’t really want to know, wouldn't have asked, even out of politeness, if he knew the real answer. It wasn’t the kind of thing one talked about openly, and for all that Tubbo was the Secretary of State, he was still young. 

“Oh,” he said in response. “This and that. I sleep.” It wasn’t technically a lie. When George wasn't doing Schlatt’s bidding, he was usually dead asleep, curled up under the warm blankets of his bed. It was an easy way to forget, if for just a moment. He didn’t have anything to mine, no building goals or a need for new tools that would require him to go searching for materials deep underground or in the Nether. Besides, Dream, Sapnap, and Bad were always off doing whatever they did, never all together in one place, Bad doing projects and hanging out with Antfrost and Awesam, Sapnap chilled with Karl for the most part, and Dream was doing… whatever Dream does these days. George doesn't really know anymore. 

“You, uh. You do certainly seem to sleep a lot.” George did have a habit of using sleeping as an excuse when he needed to explain where he was when he was working a bit more than entirely necessary.

George did laugh at that, though, almost genuine, but his grin faded fast into a bittersweet half-smile.

“Yeah, yeah. I usually end up missing events and stuff, but I hope I can make it to your festival.” He walked to the window, looking out on the world below, seeing where the stalls and games sat half-built, new scaffolding built around the stage where the awning had been built down before. “It seems like you’re working really hard on it, looks like it’ll be fun.”

Tubbo beamed at the praise, visibly brightening. “You think so? I want to make sure that everyone has a really great time, you know?”

“It sounds like a blast. If I can make it, I’ll come say hello.” George checked the clock, and grimaced. “I ought to go. My meeting with Schlatt is in about five minutes, and you know he’ll start without me.”

“If you’re not five minutes early, you’re ten minutes late,” Tubbo hummed as he returned to the paperwork before him, and George grimaged good-naturedly.

“Oh, please don’t, I hear that enough from him.” At that, Tubbo laughed a little, and waved him off with the hand no holding the pen.

“See you later, George.”

“You too, Tubbo.” Out of the room he walked, quietly, the door not so much as creaking as he left it. The stone hall of the white house did not echo with his steps as he made his way to the President’s office. He wasn’t entirely sure why Schlatt had called him to a meeting with Vice President Quackity, as whenever Schlatt called on him to do his duties, it was always in private, away from ears that might disapprove or give the jig up, ears that could reveal sensitive information to people who might hear it. Loose lips sinking ships and all that.

Besides, though everyone called George the Vice President, that was his job in title only. George’s duties were far more  _ specialized _ than the duties of a real VP like Quackity was. He didn’t touch any paperwork, wore netherite armor in place of a tailored suit, didn’t give speeches or serve as an advisor. He had never once presided over their nonexistent senate or signed a single piece of legislature. All of that was for Quackity to do, and George had other jobs. He thought that it might not be inaccurate to say that he played a major part in the country’s defense, but sometimes he wondered if that was really the honest truth about the things he did for Schlatt.

He knocked on the door, knuckles rapping at the wood underneath the shiny, golden plaque on the door which read Schlatt’s name and title.

George stepped back from the door, folding his hands behind his back and waiting for the door to open. He was almost entirely still, save for the gentle rise and fall of his chest as the door swung open before him to reveal Quackity, holding the door open for Geoge to enter, Schlatt visible behind the large mahogany desk, wide window behind him revealing a view of Manburg from above.

“George,” He purrs, leaning forward on his elbow. Schlatt laced his fingers under his chin, smiling wide. “I’m so glad you could make it. Come, sit down!” He gestured to one of the chairs in the room, but George shook his head.

“I’d rather stand, thank you.” Schlatt shrugged, eyebrows raised in a sort of ‘suit yourself’ gesture.

“You must be wondering why I’ve brought you here today.”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Well, if you’d let me tell you…” George just stared at him. He really hoped Schlatt wasn’t about to start monologuing. At the silence in the room, Schlatt smiled. “ _ Good _ . It has come to my attention that we have a traitor in our midst. And that? That hurts. To think that someone that I had placed my trust in would just… throw that trust away so  _ heartlessly _ ?”

“A traitor, sir?” Questioned Quackity, with furrowed brows. George knew Quackity wasn’t stupid. Neither was Schlatt, for that matter, for all of his drowning and drinking and acting like a fool in front of an audience. The man was manipulative, cunning, and clever, able to make quick judgements based off of the littlest clues. He’d figured George out by the way that he stood, observing the room with his back to the far wall, opposite the door. He’d clocked the concealed weapons, the lightweight armor that George wore under his suit, and he’d had the balls to bring it up to George’s face the moment he got George alone.

“I think I’ll use the festival to expose him,” hummed Schlatt, a look of calculated thoughtfulness spread across his face. “The traitor, that is. Can I trust you two keep the name secret?”

George nodded. A public execution. Not George’s style, but what Schlatt wanted, he got. Unless he directly asked, George wasn’t planning on showing up. He wasn't ever really expected to, not by any means, and he was okay with that. 

“It’s our own Secretary of State, Tubbo.” George blinked behind his shaded goggles, but otherwise his face didn’t twitch. Jesus. He’d figured Schlatt had guessed a while ago, but making the kid plan his own execution? The thought of it made George’s stomach churn like nothing had in a long time, his skin crawling at the image of the earnest kid he’d just spoken to digging his own grave without even knowing. Schlatt might not have said it outright, might have said exposed rather than execute, but George knows enough about Schlatt to know that the man doesn't take kindly to being betrayed, that he won't just let Tubbo slide with imprisonment.

“Mr. President—” Quackity began, brows furrowed, but he stopped himself, considering his next words. “What’s your plan?”

Schlatt leaned back in his chair, an easy smile on his face. “I’ll let everyone enjoy his little festival, give them the time to see the good Manburg has to offer. However, once Tubbo gives his speech, We’ll trap him and I’ll expose him as the traitor he is. People need to know that we aren't to be fucked with. That we’re not afraid to make an example out of those who defy us.  _ Traitors _ don’t get second chances.” Quackity nods, and George knows that the other man is on board with what Schlatt has proposed aloud. He doesn't have the knowledge that George does, isn’t aware of the blood behind Schlatt’s smile, hidden underneath the perfectly pressed collars of his suits.

Knowing that Tubbo is a traitor, it’s almost funny, in a tragic sort of way, just how excited he is for the festival. Even from one short conversation, George could tell that he thought that the festival was something to be excited about, something that would be good for the country, that would bring cheer to the people both of L’Manburg and of the SMP as a whole. He’s decorating his funeral, putting flowers on his own grave preemptively, and George just hopes that the kid can respawn, far enough away that he can make for the woods and never look back at the country that will destroy him if it gets the chance, grinding him down into a broken shell of his former self.

George knows how that feels, how things hurt so much more the first time, chipping away at you bit by bit until all you can do is take it with your chin up, the pain dulled by experience. It’s not irreparable damage, you can glue the broken bits back together into an approximation of the original shape, but the cracks will always be there. He’d gotten that chance to heal with Bad, Ant, Sapnap, Dream. Befriending them was one of the few decisions he’d never once regretted in his life. He’d follow them to hell and back if he were only given the chance, they’d pulled him out of the dark and given him a chance to stay, to grow beyond the George that had been quiet and complacent, following his handlers’ orders to the letter and never taking room for himself, never letting himself be anything more than a tool for the hunt. 

It took him a while to warm up to them, to be more open and friendly, to joke and laugh freely. There were still times when he was uncomfortable with affection, when he shut down and hid behind his goggles, face blank as his mind drifted, disconnected from himself. He’d move without thinking, reacting to the lightest, gentlest touch with lethal action. They’d gotten good at telegraphing their moves to him on those days, picking up on his stilted responses and empty silences and making sure that they respected his boundaries. It was really nice, actually.

He’s glad he met them all, in the end, even if they’ve been drifting slowly apart, even if he barely sees them any more, even having rooms with Sapnap in Awesam’s house, even knowing that Bad is usually somewhere in the SMP, even as his heart pounds like a drum with every scrap of acknowledgement that he gets from them as they pass on the prime path or the Nether highway or in the Community House every so often, each going about their own respective business. It’s not that he’s lonely, of course. He’s used to being lonely, he knows what it feels to be completely alone, and this isn’t it. 

Even so, he thinks he misses Dream, sometimes. He catches himself looking over his shoulder for flashes of neon green fabric and white porcelain more than he might call healthy. He hasn't seen Dream in a while now, the man just straight gone, unresponsive to any attempts to message him even if online, and sometimes his communicator would be just plain turned off, no way to contact him. They haven’t had a hunt in too long now, even with Antfrost only having recently joined their little group of hunters-in-training, still fresh and in need of practice. Practice made perfect, and hunting Dream made for very,  _ very _ good practice.

Few people actually consider what being a hunter means, at least for George, and George can live with that. They see his hunts with Dream and they see how many times that Dream has outsmarted them, that they don't consider how good Dream is, the kind of skill it must take to match him nearly step for step, to kill him even once. Their manhunts are a kind of training, teaching them how to think on their feet, how to work together, to be able to accomplish tasks with both speed and skill as they work closer to a goal. It’s learning how to kill with efficiency, to make sacrifices, where best to slip your sword to do the most damage. The funny thing is about Dream— he’s not like George. He wasn’t trained to kill, wasn’t taught how to burn through a respawn like dying didn’t hurt more than anything else in the world, wasn’t killed enough that no death would truly matter enough to be permanent, no death would take one of his three true lives. It wasn’t too hard, with some practice, to destroy respawn points, to make deaths feel important, disrupting the process of being so rudely awoken from that sleep of death, once you got the hang of it. It was hunting down and killing the target before they had a chance to reset their spawn that was the hard part.

Of the group, George was the only ‘classically trained’ hunter, the rest either participating for fun or to hone a skill they don't have much practice with, chasing and being chased over all terrain and learning how to do the most damage on a target skilled in evasion. The manhunts are actually pretty fun for him—for them all— when he gets down to it, laughing hysterically and shrieking like a kid as his friend chases him through the woods with no punishment for failure to complete the mark, just the satisfaction of a game well-played. There are no punishments for dying, only good-humored ribbing when he falls for one of Dream’s schemes, and his wounds are bandaged by hands that actually care whether or not he’s in pain. At this point, George is pretty sure they all are at least aware of his training, but George never really brings it up openly, and they don't pry, which he really appreciates. 

On some worlds, non-permanent assassinations were commonplace, hunters taking a payment to kill a target of choice for one reason or another, and they probably assume that his training was this sort of soft bounty. However, on others, one could even pay to have a target permanently killed, no more respawns or takebacks, deaths significant enough to stick through the void. Most of both these kinds of so-called bounty hunters were self-taught, those good at combat with time on their hands and something that they needed payment for. However, others were trained, taught how to hunt by the old techniques, the old rules and commissions, under a guild or a master who knows their art, and knows it well.

George was trained, and he very well knows how to make his poisons tasteless and deadly, which ribs a knife goes under best, how to kill and have the victim not even know how they died. Burning through their lives, their respawns, came second nature to him, skills honed like a Damascus blade. 

But knowledge and talent doesn’t equal a willingness to do something, and just because George had been raised with a blade in his hand doesn't really mean that he wants to be Schlatt’s personal arsenic supply, his very own extra-special knife hidden in the sharply-pressed sleeve of his suit jacket. He knows the festival will be a disaster, knows Schlatt will probably do something drastic and awful, and George does not wish to stand witness. He’ll probably just sleep through the festival, holed away in his room at Awesam’s base far from all the conflict.

It’s the smart choice.

**Author's Note:**

> please note i started writing this before the three canon lives thing was implemented if how i describe respawn mechanics makes no earthly sense. 
> 
> georgenotfound your character could be so interesting please just think about it i have thought about it far too much


End file.
